


Setting It Right

by SyntheticWinter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Post-Series, Soulmates, but it's not sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4269384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticWinter/pseuds/SyntheticWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dies and ends up in Heaven, but something’s missing. He sets out to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting It Right

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something that’s been kicking around in my head since watching 8.19 Taxi Driver (like, last week). Still not sure I’m entirely happy with it, but if I don’t post it now I probably never will…

So, this was how they went out.

Bloody, like he’d always figured.

Together, like he’d always hoped.

Dean takes one last glance around to make sure everything else is dead too, then drags himself over to where Sam’s lying sprawled on the floor. Keeping one hand pressed to his own ( _definitely fatal, not getting out of it, not this time_ ) wound, he uses the other to roll Sam as gently as he can from his side to his back. Sam’s eyelids flutter weakly as Dean strokes his hair away from his face, sticky with blood and sweat and who-knows-what-else. 

Their eyes meet like they’ve done countless times before, and in that moment Dean knows that Sam knows that they’re dying.

He doesn’t say anything, just nods against Dean’s hand where it’s still on his face. Dean shifts around until his back hits something hard and wooden and, most importantly, solid. The side of a pew. Figures this would all go down in a church – they haven’t had the best luck with those places the last few years. He grasps Sam by the shoulder, and Sam helps as much as he can, but in the end it’s mostly Dean tugging and yanking and eventually adding his other hand and leaving dark, viscous smears on Sam’s already pretty stained jacket in his efforts to haul his brother up beside him. 

Eventually he manages it, though he’s struggling to catch his breath and to see around the spots dancing in his vision. That would be the blood loss, then.

Sam looks pretty bad, pale and shivering, and there’s a lot more blood than Dean’s normally comfortable with. He keeps one hand on his brother, steadying and comforting all in one, and figures if this is it maybe it isn’t so bad. They’ve done a lot of good in their lives. They’ve done a hell of a lot of bad, too, but he’d like to think the good at least sort of balances that.

Sam’s eyes are starting to lose focus. “Sammy, hey, eyes on me, little brother.” Sam blinks once and his gaze sharpens a little. Not much, and Dean knows neither of them has much time. His “see you on the other side” gets a weak smile, but at least Sam’s trying. 

And then he’s not.

Dean reaches over to close his eyes.

Using the last of his strength, he pulls Sam’s limp, unresisting body closer and, resting his head against Sam’s shoulder, he closes his eyes and lets go.

* * *

He wakes alone, on the shoulder of a familiar two-lane blacktop, but he’s not concerned. He just has to follow the road and he’ll find Sam. He starts driving.

* * *

It dawns slowly, the realization that Sam is not here. That no matter how far he drives, Dean’s not going to find him.

Cas comes when he prays, and he’s a little surprised by that. Grateful, but surprised.

Cas seems equally surprised that Sam isn’t with him, and leaves with a promise to investigate, and Dean knows he will but he hates waiting. Finally, after twelve of the longest minutes Dean has ever experienced, Cas returns, with that look on his face like he knows Dean isn’t going to like what he has to say. He says it anyway, and Dean starts to formulate a plan.

* * *

It took him some time to break out of his own Heaven and make it to Bobby’s. Ash (or whoever – he liked to think it was Ash) helped out once he figured out what Dean was trying to do. At least, Dean didn’t think the lighted path along the floor straight to Bobby’s doorway was something Heaven had been designed with.

It took them even longer to identify, track down, and contact a rogue reaper willing to deal. But they’ve finally done it, and now Dean’s standing in an all-too-familiar desaturated landscape. The reaper doesn’t offer to pick Dean up, just tells him to make his own way back or not and leaves him to it.

This reaper kind of sucks.

Oh, well. The guy probably figures worst case scenario, Sam and Dean will stumble around Purgatory until they chance on the portal to Heaven or get themselves killed. Again.

Dean starts walking.

* * *

Crowley redecorated. Inane as it is, that’s his first thought upon seeing the ancient-looking masonry, the improved lighting, the considerably more orderly layout. There’s little physical resemblance to the Hell he still dreams about sometimes ( _dreamed – he’s dead now, he has to keep reminding himself_ ), but there’s plenty enough reminders that other things haven’t changed.

He hurries down the corridors, skirting around the people trailing their intestines, or with their skins flayed off, or a thousand other things bored demons have come up with over the centuries. He wants to help them, he does, but he’s on a timetable here. 

He wonders vaguely what state he’ll find Sam in, but doesn’t let himself think about it too much. How long has it been? He has no idea.

He finds the right cell sooner than he could have dared hope.

Sam’s sitting on a narrow outcropping of rock roughly approximating a bench, back against the wall and long legs drawn up against his chest. He doesn’t move even though he must have heard the door creak open.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers.

Sam finally does look up at that, just a flickering glance. “Dean.” He sounds resigned.

Dean takes one step forward, and then another. “Come on, Sammy, let’s get you out of here.”

“Of course.” Still in that same flat, disinterested tone. He makes no move to get up.

_Right._ Dean has done time down here; he remembers. He figures he’s probably the hundredth ‘Dean’ Sam has seen today, each one worse than the last. But he’s got to do _something_ to convince Sam that he’s real, and he’s got to do it fast.

Sam has shifted to sit up and turn in his general direction, feet flat on the floor and elbows on his knees, hunched over, still not looking at him but it’s progress.

“Sam.” Sam doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t react at all.

Dean takes a step closer, close enough to make out Sam muttering to himself, “‘S not real,” and he’s out of time. He covers the remaining space between them in two long strides, reaches out with one hand to clasp Sam’s shoulder and the other to cup his jaw and tilt his face up like he’s done countless times before. “Sam, listen to me. If we’re gonna go, we gotta do it now. You hearin’ me in there?” His eyes flicker between Sam’s, looking for… he doesn’t know. A glimmer of something, anything. _Please. Come on, Sam._

It comes in the form of Sam’s voice, quiet, hesitant still, but not the empty monotone from before. “Dean?”

Dean closes his eyes in relief, briefly touching his forehead to Sam’s before quickly forcing his eyes open again and nodding emphatically. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay, time to go. Up you get, Sasquatch.”

* * *

It isn’t until after they’ve fought their way through huge swaths of Purgatory – side by side and back to back, just like old times – and are back inside familiar leather and chrome, Baby’s doors shut securely behind them, that Dean allows himself to take a real breath for the first time since finding out about Sam.

Sam’s full of a million questions about how Dean knew where he was, and what Dean did to get him out, and what it cost this time. And Dean will answer all of them, someday. But for now, he can only scrounge up a handful of words, nowhere near enough to encompass everything he’s feeling, but he hopes Sam understands anyway.

“Welcome home, Sammy.”


End file.
